Cellophane Sun
by The Barkeep
Summary: Rent-Fic: Mark has always been the stable one, but when he begins to spin out of control, no one notices... REDUX OF CHAPTER 6, REVIEWER QUESTIONS RESOLVED! NOW! 02/21! Please R&R!
1. Prologue

Cellophane Sun-   
By Ducky 

**_Author's Notes:_** This is the third story I've started in a matter of weeks, but I'm making progress on all three of them, so I'm just going to pitch it out to you anyhow. Reviews make my world go 'round. I'd really like to know what you guys think. I really appreciate the reviews I've gotten on "Detachment", and the one I've gotten on "Remnants of the Vague". I'm glad you guys are so responsive... warm fuzzies, man. Honestly! Anyhoo, enjoy! 

**_Disclaimer:_** Lyrics and title of "Cellophane Sun" are © Adam Pascal, 2000. The recognizable characters aren't mine- although I might wish that I could get my hands on Mark or Roger- they're the late, great Jonathan Larson's. I'm just borrowing for my own entertainment. Taking me to court would so not be in your best interest. I'm a teenager, I have nothing. The plot, etc. are all mine, so I don't want to see it under anyone else's nom deplume. Ciao!   


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The makeshift family stood around the fresh grave in silence. Roger stared at the ground, feeling Mimi's hand creep into his own. She leaned her head against his, and he felt her kiss the sleeve of his jacket. He was trembling and he knew it, but he couldn't let the tears go just yet. No one, least of all Roger, had expected him to be the first to go. 

Mark had always been the supportive one. He would discard his own problems and his own life to better those of his friends. He let Maureen use and abuse him, and helped Roger get back onto his feet after six months of withdrawal. He had immortalized countless moments in time for them all. He'd worked so hard to keep himself out of the spotlight, that no one ever wondered if he was really happy behind his camera. Mark would be Mark, and everyone accepted that, letting him fade into the backdrop. 

But they all knew it should have been obvious. The way that he fought to keep attention away, the times when he became quiet and reclusive. His constant filming was an outlet; he could be there without having to experience anything. His appearance always reflected that of a malnourished and fragile child, but they had chalked it up to their erratic, bohemian lifestyle. Changes in his mood were almost scheduled. He would become energetic and intense at the same time each day, his emotion tapering off to nothing within minutes. No one had thought anything of it. No one ever suspected what Mark was doing to himself. 


	2. Fourteen Months Earlier Mark

**_Author's Note:_** Hola, faithful readers! Just thought I'd drop a little note to let you know that **Joy**, of _No Day but Today_ and _Guilt _fame, is co-writing this story with me. I would wield it over to a joint screename, only I don't want to lose the reviews we've already got. The next chapter will be Joy's. This chapter, however, is the very first POV I've ever really written for "Rent" so let me know what you think. That said, this is tentatively rated PG-13 because of language and sexual references, blah, blah, blah. If you're sensitive to that sort of thing, please refrain from reading. REVIEWS MAKE THE WORLD GO 'ROUND!   


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**Fourteen Months Earlier: **_Mark_

Close on the wall, its plaster peeling and cracking, vacant of any signs of life. It's almost synonymous with my existence. I sigh, setting my camera down, and try desperately to ignore the pre-sex giggles coming from Mimi's apartment. Roger has been down there for almost a month, and I still haven't heard from him. Collins and Angel haven't come by in a week or so, and Maureen and Joanne- if there even _is_ a Maureen and Joanne anymore- fight so much that their company is pointless. 

It drives me insane. I'm everybody's rock, their parent away from parents. I end up being privy to their problems, their shoulder to cry on, their nursemaid, and then, I get forgotten. I end up alone. 

Mimi squeals and I hear Roger laugh. This is nauseating. 

I remember when he couldn't laugh, and when he couldn't even move without my help. I would spend hours in his room, holding his hand while he sweat bullets and sobbed into my shoulder, screaming for April. I spent days covered in _his_ sweat, covered in _his_ vomit, never leaving him alone because the demons were too much for him to handle by himself. Well, fuck. No one ever stops to wonder if I have demons of my own. After I've gotten rid of _their_ problems, who cares if Mark is all right? 

Downstairs, I can hear Mimi's head board thumping against the wall. She and Roger are groaning various obscenities, their round of annoying giggles lost to the night. 

I'm sitting here, staring at a wall. Some kind of life. 

It's on nights like tonight when I wish I had something besides my camera. Living behind a scratched lens provides some solace, but it still isn't an _escape_. When I film, even though I'm detached, I'm still conscious to the goings on that surround me. I need a way to become completely numb. 

Fuck. 

I stand up, knowing exactly what I can do. I search blindly for my wallet, then count the bills inside. Twenty-three bucks. I can't remember the last time I had that much cash... I know it's because I don't have to chip in for Roger's AZT anymore. I should buy groceries or at least some wood for my stove, but I don't see the point. Food and pieces of a dead tree won't take away the pain, but I know something that will.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. Fourteen Months Earlier II Mark

**_Ducky's Note:_** Okay everyone, this is Joy's first chapter. 

**_Author's Note_**: Ok guys, this is my first shot at Mark angst. How'd I do? Scroll down to the review button at the bottom of the page and let me know!   


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I walk down the street quickly, trying not to think too much about what I'm about to do. I just walk, my body on autopilot, down the streets until I find myself following a familiar path…a path in which I'd followed Roger so many times in the past. I command my brain not to think. If I think I won't do it. And I need to do it. I need to find some way to show them that I hurt too, that even I, Mark Cohen have problems, nightmares, demons of my own! This is the only way to show them that I need to be taken care of too. And as much as I hate to do it, I know there's no other way. 

I see the figure standing in the shadows, his face covered by the oversized hood of the overcoat he wears – despite the unusual warmth of the winter thus far – and I pause. All those months spent with Roger in withdrawal…hating him for doing it to himself, to me. And now here I am about to do the very same thing. 

I take a deep breath and walk shakily up to The Man, not saying anything for a second, trying to gather up enough strength to form the words that have been playing around in my mind for the past 15 minutes. 

He looks at me and I can see a sort of humor playing in those cold, gray eyes of his. 

"Looking for 'Lover boy'?" he asks, his voice oozing with sarcasm. 

My mind is saying it, repeating the words over and over…commanding me to speak. But nothing comes out. I can't help but ask myself again, why am I here? Why am I doing this? I know the consequences…I've seen them in my best friend. I've seen so many lives taken over, destroyed by this…and here I am, about to inject it into my own veins, my own life. 

And then the sounds of Mimi and Roger in the apartment downstairs begin to play in my head again: the giggling, laughing, moaning, the slamming of the headboard into the wall… the silence of the loft. Oh, the sound of silence. How I've gotten so used to that nonexistent sound in the past few weeks, ever since Roger moved out of the loft and into Mimi's apartment. And suddenly I know the answer. 

'It's the only way,' I repeat firmly to myself and somehow manage to reach into the pocket of my worn, plaid jacket and pull out the crumpled bills I had been saving and shove them into his hands. 

He raises an eyebrow and then after a few seconds he finally seems to get it and he starts laughing. I hate that laugh. He shakes his head, still laughing, and hands me a small plastic bag containing white powder. 

"I'd have never thought you of all people…" 

But I don't hear the end of his sentence because I'm already walking away, running far away from that place, from him, from this whole situation. 

It isn't until I'm back at the loft that I realize I forgot to purchase a needle. Stupid me. Now what am I going to do? 

I glance at Roger's vacant room, trying to get the thought out of my head, knowing it's stupid, knowing it's suicide, knowing all these things but the need is there pushing all other thoughts out of my mind. 

I can be safe. I can wash it first, I can sterilize it and things would be fine. And it would only be once. Just this one time until I get my own needle…or until my "friends" find out and I won't need it anymore. 

So I walk slowly into Roger's room and open the drawer by his bed. I know he never got rid of them. He didn't use them, but he always saved them to remind him of what he went through, to remind him not to go through it again. And here I am about to go through it myself. As I spot a needle and pick it up carefully by the end, I wonder if it's supposed to be reminding me the same thing. Reminding me of withdrawal, of AIDS, of April… and it is. But my need for care and attention and an outlet for the pain is stronger than all those things. So I carefully carry it into the kitchen with me, only stopping to grab Roger's lighter from his dresser, and wash it over and over again until I'm sure it's safe. 

After I'm sure I have everything I'll need – a spoon, the smack, a lighter, and the needle – I set up my camera on the tripod and focus it on myself. 

"January 14th, 11:00 p.m. Eastern Standard time. Here I am with a needle that I stole from Roger and the smack I bought from his old dealer. What the fuck am I doing? I don't know. All I know is that I can't take living like this anymore. I'm not perfect. Just because I'm always solving everyone else's problems doesn't mean that I don't have problems of my own. Just because I laugh and smile and joke with my friends doesn't mean that I'm laughing and smiling on the inside. I need them to know that I hurt too, and that I need help. And that even if I can't verbalize my need, it's still there." 

I look down at the needle and white powder in my hand and sigh, remembering everything I went through getting Roger off this shit. 

"But is it worth it? To get the attention I've always needed from my friends but never had? To be the one getting helped instead of constantly helping for once? To get the pain that threatens to tear me apart inside out of me?" 

I look down again at the needle and smack and hear Mimi and Roger's moans through the thin walls of the apartment downstairs. Roger's one flight of stairs away…and I haven't seen him in weeks. He lives 14 stairs down from me and somehow he managed to push 6 years of friendship and companionship out of his mind for the woman he met only a few weeks ago. And forgot completely about poor Mark. 

I look straight at the camera and without hesitation I answer my own question. "Yes." 

And with that thought calming my mind, and the moans from Roger and Mimi strengthening my decision, I quickly melt the powder down to a smooth liquid and push the cool tip of the needle in my arm. 


	4. Eighteen Days Later Mark

**_Author's Notes:_** Can we PLEASE get some reviews? It would be very nice. Both Joy and I enjoy writing this story, but reviews would make it just delectable. At least two?   


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**Eighteen Days Later: **_Mark_

"February 1st, 3' am, Eastern Standard Time," I say. My camera is at its now familiar resting place on the tripod, the stigmatized lens pointed in my direction. I don't film much else anymore; at least not when I'm on my own. It's hard for me to control the camera... my hands never stop shaking, save for a few euphoric minutes in the middle of the night. 

"It's been two weeks since my first hit, and I've filmed every one since then. I know that it's morbid, and that I could be committed for doing something like this, but I don't care. I don't have flesh to confess my sins to; only film." 

I stare at the camera. The familiar whir of the film rotating is the only sound in the loft. It's almost peaceful. 

Slowly, I pull the sleeve of my sweater up to my elbow, showing off a series of track marks: 17, to be exact. 

"There are seventeen track marks on my arm. I didn't think it would get this far. I figured it would be a few days before someone noticed, and tried to help me kick it," I pause for a moment, sighing. My eyes wander to the thatch of track marks, but I manage to focus on the camera again. "Angel and Collins are still MIA. Roger and Mimi have been fighting a lot lately, but they never seem to come up for air. Joanne is somewhere on business. Maureen actually came to visit me yesterday, but she was so involved in planning her next protest that she didn't notice. I mean, I was sweating and shaking... fuck, I was even parading around in an undershirt, just begging her to look at my arms." 

I shake my head, realizing that I'm _still_ sweating and shaking. "It's been almost twenty-six hours since my last fix. I know that I'm not in withdrawal, but the little bit of smack I can afford stopped being enough a week ago." 

Reaching beneath the stool I'm sitting on, I produce a Ziploc bag containing my drug, along with another, which holds a spoon, a lighter, and some syringes. I wave the bags in front of the camera. 

"I got my own needles four days ago, which is an improvement to using Roger's old ones. There are still a few used ones in his drawer, so I'm hoping he won't notice and go ballistic." 

I laugh, realizing how pathetic I sound. A month and a half now, and I _still_ haven't seen him. He wouldn't notice or care if I had sprouted a third eye, let alone used his needles. I remember the way he used to be: I tried to get rid of them once, just after he'd stopped using, but he wouldn't let me touch them. I can still hear him screaming. 

_Mark, don't fucking touch those! My blood and shit is still all over them. God, don't be so stupid... you don't need to commit suicide too._

I absently repeat Roger's words to the camera and snort. "Ironic, isn't it? He cared _then_, when all I wanted to do was free up space in his sock drawer. Now, he's too busy to care. He's too busy to even drop in and say 'hi'." 

I open the bag with my supplies, taking out the lighter and the spoon. Sifting the pure, white powder into the bowl of the spoon, I let the flame hover below it, melting the grains into a smooth, fogged liquid. I slip it into the syringe, watching it slide gently to the bottom of the translucent tube before closing it off. I give my forearm a curt slap, waiting for a vein to pop from my track marked skin. 

I poise the needle above the vein and look at the camera again. 

"Fix number eighteen. February 1st, 3:13 am, Eastern Standard Time," I say, and I plunge the needle into my arm. 

When I look at the camera again, the pain has gone, and I feel a lazy smile creep onto my face. I know that the high will only last a few minutes, maybe three or four if I'm lucky, so I wait, letting the poison pulse through my veins. 

"The world is so fucked up anymore," I hear myself say. "Maureen fucking left me for another woman. Benny has become a yuppie. All he cares about is money. Collins has finally found someone he can be happy with, but I miss him. Roger is living with HIV and an HIV-infected infant of an S&M dancer. Mimi's sweet, but she's so young, and she's in the middle of some bad shit. Me? I'm injecting myself with something that I swore I'd never touch. And you know what? It's some kind of wonderful." 

I wave absently at the camera, watching as colors explode before my eyes. For a few seconds, I let go, and I don't feel anything. Slowly, the high subsides, and I feel the grappling pain wrack my body. I jump from the stool, leaving the camera on. 

The bathroom door is open, and also within the view of my camera. I race in, and collapse on my knees in front of the toilet. I throw up. Pause. I manage a few breaths, and throw up again. It's at this point that I always hope someone will walk in; someone will walk in and see what I'm doing to myself and try to save me, but it never happens. 

I curl into a ball on the linoleum, sobbing. It's been eighteen days, and my life has already been reduced to counting the track marks and being desperate for new ones. 

If only they could see me now.   
  
  



	5. Two Months Later Mark

**_Ducky's Note:_** Another Joy chapter!   


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**Two Months Later: **_Mark_

April. April 4th. Three months since that first hit. Three months and yet here I am still doing it, still waiting for someone to notice, to care…still waiting for the pain to go away. 

I guess I know really that it never will. I know the pain will never fully go away. It can be temporarily dulled, but it never lasts long. Never for more than 15 minutes at the most, and I don't have the money to make it last longer. The small amount of cash that I have isn't even enough for those 15 minutes anymore. Now it's more like 10 minutes, 5, 3. 

I don't know how Roger afforded all those months of happiness when he was using. The tiny amount of smack that I use isn't even enough to make me happy anymore. It's enough to keep me normal…out of withdrawal. But I can never seem to get that amazing buzz that I used to feel. 

Yes, I've experienced withdrawal symptoms. Never severe. Never more than the shaking and throwing up that I've grown so accustomed to lately. And definitely not enough to knock some sense into me. 

All the warning signs are telling me to stop: the shaking that's getting worse with each passing day, the constant and painful vomiting, the weight I've lost as a result of spending all the grocery money on heroin…all of is telling me to stop now before it gets even worse, before I get in deeper than I am already. But I can't…or won't. 

I can feel the need getting stronger, the desire to use taking over my mind, pushing all the reasoning and common sense aside. All the thoughts, the warning signs, and signals going off in my head are taken over by the constant need for more and more of the only thing that can get me to feel anymore. 

You know, it's funny. At first I shot up to stop feeling, to take away the pain that threatened to tear me apart inside. And now I shoot up to feel. To feel anything. Because somehow feeling numb is worse than when I could feel nothing but the pain. It's scarier. Because it's a signal that I'm heading down a path that I swore I'd never follow. 

I still remember that first time…the first time I shot up. I swore it would only be that once. Just to take away the hurt and pain and loneliness that I couldn't seem to get out any other way. I said I would only do it until my friends found out and stopped me...until they cared. And then after that I promised myself I'd just do it once in a while, and only until they all noticed and realized the pain I was in. But it wasn't just that one time, and it's not just once in a while. It's all the time. 

Not enough of the time. 

The wave of nausea that washes over me is a confirmation of that. Not enough of the time. I simply don't have the money to buy the amount of smack that I need to keep me normal, to keep me from spending half of the day bent over the toilet or sitting on my hands to keep them from shaking. 

I glance over at my camera sitting on the tripod and, just for a second, the thought of selling it flashes through my mind. But I push it aside quickly. The camera has become my new best friend, along with the heroin and needles. Just like the smack and syringes, it's with me every single time I shoot up. It's my confidant, the only one who will listen to my ramblings. 

I still tape every time I do it. Every time I push that needle into my arm, the whir of the camera accompanies the prick of the skin, the amazing high, and the crashing down moments later. It follows me through the process as I throw up in the bathroom, sweat out of control…it films the bliss that is evident on my face for those amazing 5 or 10 minutes. And then it's gone and everything starts all over again. 

Another wave of intense nausea washes through me, and a new pain that I've never experienced before, an awful cramp in my stomach, accompanies it and I know that I have to do it now before I'm too sick to properly inject the poison into my veins. 

I quickly glance at my watch before my vision gets too blurred to see the time, and switch on my camera on the tripod, sitting in front of it with the ziplock bag that contains my stash in my lap. 

"April 4th, 8:05 p.m. Eastern Standard time. A half hour from my last hit. Is it just me or is the time in between hits getting shorter and shorter?" 

I sigh, depressed when I realize that the camera is the only one I converse with anymore. And the only one who cares to hear me. 

"It's been three months since that first time and they still haven't noticed. They have no fucking clue and that's what hurts the most. Roger's still living with Mimi and, amazingly enough, he actually called here the other day. I was so happy to hear his voice, I thought that maybe he noticed something was wrong. It was when he told me he needed to borrow money for his AZT that I realized that there's no way he could have realized what was going on because he hadn't seen me in months, and hadn't spoken to me in just as long. I want to hate Mimi for taking him away. Sometimes it seemed like he was the only one that cared about me, and now with her in the picture there's no one to care. I took care of him all those months in withdrawal, I never left the loft just to make sure he didn't go out and hurt himself again. I dealt with him screaming, throwing things, hitting me, cutting me out of his life and replacing me with a drug. And then in one night it's all forgotten when a beautiful woman knocks on the door, asking for a match. It's ironic really. I gave up everything for him when drugs took over his life, and he doesn't even notice when they're taking over mine. So I guess it wasn't Mimi that made him stop caring after all…he never cared in the first place." 

The image of the camera suddenly blurs in front of me and I try to focus my mind on the blinking red light as sparks of pain shoot through my legs and chest. I have to do it now or I won't be able to do it at all. 

"Hit number 53," I say weakly and then plunge the needle into my arm, the heroin soothing the pain as it courses through my body and soothes my mind. 

"What did you just say, Mark?" 

I look up quickly and through the haze of colors, sounds, and objects I recognize the figure, clad in an orange and pink dress and standing in the doorway, to be Angel. Shit, I hadn't even noticed her come in. I had been to busy focusing on getting my hands to stop shaking for long enough to melt the powder and inject it in my arm that I hadn't realized that someone was right there behind me, witnessing my crime. 

Somewhere in the back of my drug hazed mind realizes that this is what I've been waiting for, what I've wanted since that very first hit. But an even louder voice is screaming to lie, to cover up what I've been doing, and for the first time since I started shooting up I question my intentions. 

This is what I wanted right? For my friends to find out and care? Yes…or at least that's what I had always told myself. But if that's true, than why do I feel such an overwhelming urge to lie so I can keep doing it? What's more important? Sympathy and attention from my friends, or the comfort and numbness that only my new best friend has to offer? 

I know the answer instantly. Heroin. It's been more of a friend to me than Roger, Maureen, Joanne, Angel, Collins, Mimi, and Benny combined. For years they had ignored my pain…all my anguish had gone unnoticed, overlooked. All of them had left me, abandoned me, leaving me alone with my demons and nightmares. 

And now, for once in my life, I have something to take it away…to take away all the pain and hurt that my friends never could…that they had never even noticed. And I'm not about to give it up now. My friends had left me and heroin took their place. And I can honestly say that heroin is a better friend to me than any of them ever had been. 

So, looking up at Angel from where I sit on the floor, I make my decision. Roger had chosen Mimi over me, Maureen chose Joanne, Collins had Angel, Benny has Allison…and I have heroin. 

My mind races, trying to think of an excuse as to why I'm sitting here on the floor holding a bag of needles in my lap and a bag of smack next to me. But before I even have the chance to open my mouth Angel hurries over to me and gets down next to me, grabbing the bag away before I even have the chance to react. 

No, oh no, she can't do this… What will I do without my needles? What will I do without my smack?? I grab for the ziplock bag in her hands but my mind is hazy and my vision still blurred so I miss and end up losing my balance and falling forward on the floor. 

"Fuck," I say as I struggle to sit up and reach for my stash again. But Angel already has her arms around me, supporting me and helping me over to the couch where she lies me down and grabs the blanket off my bed, throwing it over my body and then sits next to me on the floor. 

She looks up at me on the couch, her deep brown eyes searching my own bloodshot ones, looking for the answers to all the unasked questions going through our minds. 

"Collins is out of town. His sister is sick so he's staying with her for a while. I just thought I'd stop by and see how you're doing…I haven't seen you in a while." 

She strokes my arm, the track marks clearly visible and laced in all directions. 

"What happened, Honey? Why are you doing this?" she asks, motioning to my scarred arms and the ziplock bag on the floor next to her. 

I glance at the camera, still on the tripod, the red light blinking and the zoom lens focused on me. Well, this would make for one hell of a film. I look directly into the camera, trying to focus on the red light so as not to daze out, as I say, "It's all that I have. No one noticed…no one cared. They all assume I'm happy and stable because I'm the one that solves all their problems, because I laugh and I smile and don't cry or complain when things go wrong. They don't want to see me as unhappy because if I had problems of my own, who would solve theirs? Who would be the one they'd run to when they had fights with their parents, broke up with their girlfriends, needed someone to take care of them? Everyone left…I have no one. The only time Maureen ever speaks to me is when she's in a fight with Joanne and needs a substitute production manager. And I don't even think Roger remembers who I am anymore. He just threw away a lifetime of friendship, completely forgot about me the night some beautiful woman comes into his life. All those months he was using I never left the loft. I stayed up all night, waiting for him to come home and when he didn't I went out searching for him and took care of him because he was too wasted to do it himself. I stopped seeing Maureen because he needed someone to take care of him when he was in withdrawal. He refused to go to rehab so I locked myself in here with him for three weeks, watching him constantly to make sure he didn't go out and shoot up again. I dealt with him screaming at me, cursing, hitting me, begging me to let him out… I held his hand when the pain was too much for him, I stayed by his side all those hours he spent throwing up in the bathroom to make sure he didn't pass out… I put up with his 6 months of silence when he was too depressed to talk, or eat, or even take care of himself! I fucking did everything for him. Christ, Maureen left me for another woman because I spent all my time taking care of him! And in one night…one night…it's all forgotten. He just packed his things and went to live with Mimi, and in the three months that he's been gone, I've gotten one phone call. And you know what he wanted when he called? Money. He needed to borrow money. He lives one flight of stairs away…it doesn't take that much to climb up 14 stairs to say hello to your 'best friend' once in a while. Wait, no. That's wrong. I'm not his best friend. He doesn't even know what's going on…what I've been doing. He doesn't know that I've been using his needles, going to his dealer… I don't have friends. The only friend I have – the only real friend – is heroin. So you want to know why I do it? Because I have nothing else. No one else. No one cares, no one listens, no one takes the time to realize that their 'friend' is falling apart right in front of their eyes. That's why I do it, why I need it, and why I'm not stopping." 

Angel pauses for a second, taking this all in. After a moment she says, "Mark, honey, did you say you were using Roger's needles?" 

I nod, beginning to feel myself shake, even under the heavy blanket covering my freezing body. "I cleaned them first." 

"You started using heroin because you thought no one cared about you?" 

I nod again. "It's true. They really don't care, they don't notice. None of them. I was high when Roger called the other day, he didn't realize – he didn't think twice as to why my words were slurred or why my sentences didn't make sense. And Maureen was here almost every day a few weeks ago. She needed help on her performance and she and Joanne were fighting so she came running to me – old dependable Mark Cohen. The only reason she ever talks to me anymore is when she and Joanne aren't speaking and she needs me to take care of the equipment or help her rehearse. You know, I wore tee-shirts every day she was here. I fucking left out my needles and smack and practically shoved my arms in her face and she didn't notice. No one did. Though I guess I shouldn't have really expected them too. They haven't noticed my pain for years now, I don't know why I thought they would now. It just shows how much they all 'care' about me." 

"But Mark, we do care about you! If you needed help, why didn't you just come to one of us? To me? I would have helped you! This," she says as she holds up the plastic bag containing my needles, "isn't the answer. And you of all people should know that after what you went through trying to get Roger clean." 

I open my mouth and am about to reply but suddenly the shrill ringing of a beeper sounds throughout the loft and Angel reaches down into her purse and presses the button, shutting it off. The alarm, I know, is set to remind her to take her AZT. Roger did the same thing with his beeper, though more often than not, he ignored it – or forgot to set the alarm altogether – and it was me who had to remind him to take it. 

I look at Angel curiously as she stands up, picking up my bag of needles with her. I know for a fact that she carries her AZT with her, I've seen her take it many times in the past. So I'm surprised when she starts walking to the front door, still holding my stash. 

"I have to go, honey, I'm sorry. I have an appointment. I'll be back later, I promise, and we'll finish this discussion then. And no more shooting up! It's not the answer, Mark. Really, it's not." 

And with that she walks out the door, my needles and heroin walking out with her.   



	6. Two Months Later II Mark

**_Author's Note:_** Okay, thanks to those who left feedback. I'm sorry this story hasn't been very precise in its updates. It's a very touchy subject, and writer's block did strike... please review! They make my world go 'round! The prayer used herein is the Prayer of St. Francis of Assisi. Thank you much to Sister Jo, my personal slave driver and good friend, who helped me get through this. Here's to defrocking priests!   


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Angel's stilettos click on the decrepit floor boards, slowly fading. The loft is all but silent, and I notice the red light on my camera glaring at me. I stare at the lens for a few seconds. 

"Fuck," I hear myself say. "What the _hell_ just happened?" 

No one answers. 

"Angel. _Angel_ knows, and soon, everyone else will. _Angel_ took away my stash, my needles. _Angel_ fucking took away my life. That's what it is now; my life. It wasn't supposed to get this far, but, because they are all just so damn perceptive, it did, and now, I have nothing else." 

I stand up, flinging the blanket off of me as I go. My legs are shaking, but I'm too exhausted and desperate to care. 

"I need another hit _now_. Angel doesn't know that I have more; I never use it all. There is always just enough left," I say, still staring at my scarred lens. My throat is raw, and everything around me is spinning. Inadvertently, I drop on the couch. The camera is still pointed in my direction. 

"But she took my needles, damnit. I have shit in my wallet, and-" 

It hits me. 

"I _do_ have needles, stacked in a drawer that's strictly verboten. They're in there, just waiting to be touched, and waiting to be used. A shitload of perfect needles, and no one will know if I take one. No one but Roger. What the hell am I saying? Roger wouldn't care if I hurled myself in front of a subway train, let alone used _his_ needles. He wouldn't care that I'm injecting into my blood the same disease that's going to kill him before he hits forty, that I'm committing prolonged suicide. He wouldn't notice. He's too busy fucking Mimi. That's what makes it worth the risk; Roger doesn't fucking care anymore. If he doesn't care, then I give up. I give up, and I'm going to give in, and there's no one here to stop me." 

I manage to stand up again, and this time, I don't fall down. The camera stares at the empty couch, and I find myself stalking towards Roger's room. 

Nothing has changed since he left. The bed is still a tangle of brown sheets and crumpled pieces of notebook paper, a sorry looking island in a sea of fast food and condom wrappers, dirty clothes, guitar strings, broken pencils, and empty prescription bottles. There are CD's stacked in the windowsill, and boxers hanging on his lamp. His dresser is covered with old Bic lighters and some of Mimi's MIA cosmetics. There are a few mementos leaning against the frame of the mirror, things that are a reminder of the life before: a snapshot of Collins and I doing Sonny and Cher on kareoke night at the Red Room, Roger laying on the cement against the Imagine mosaic in Central Park, he and his little brother and sister at Coney Island, he and I on grad night, a washed out picture of me behind my camera, Mimi on the Circle Line, and the prayer card from April's funeral. The prayer card brings me back to reality, and reminds me of what I need. 

I grab the handle of his sock drawer, still staring at April's prayer card. 

_Grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;_

The drawer squeaks a little bit as I pry it open. I start chucking socks out of it until I find the plastic case. 

_To be understood as to understand;_

I pop it open, feeling myself grin as I count the needles. 23. Nothing Angel did matters now. I have what I need. 

_To be loved, as to love;_

I finger the needles carefully, silently thanking Roger for leaving these here, the fucking traitor. 

_For it is in giving that we receive;_

It occurs to me that I don't really want everything that comes with these needles. I've lied to myself so many times, thinking that their disease was the only way to stay close to them, but it's not true. I know what it does to them, to Roger, and it scares me. I promise myself that I'll clean them before I use. 

_It is in pardoning that we are pardoned;_

My vision begins to blur, and the room starts spinning around me. I fall backwards, dropping the box. The needles fly, landing at my knees. I struggle to sit up, and I know that I can't wait too much longer. Fuck cleaning the needles. There _will _be some that aren't tainted, that aren't infected. There has to be. 

I push my glasses up, and begin to sort through the needles. Everything is still in a haze, and they begin to melt together. I grab one, careful not to let it snap between my fingers, deciding that it's clean enough. 

I fumble towards my own bedroom, banging into the door frame on the way. I manage to find a syringe and my extra stash, and, after grabbing a lighter and spoon, I somehow make it to the couch. I melt it down and pour it carefully into the syringe, even though my fingers are trembling. The camera is still focused on me 

"Hit n-num-number 54," I whisper, carefully flicking the needle and submerging it in my arm. I feel myself slipping into unconsciousness as the whir of the camera becomes louder. 

Everything will be fine. 

_And it is in dying that we are born to eternal life._   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	7. Unspecified Mark & Roger

_**Author's Note:**_ Well, here it is. We received some decent constructive criticism on the last edition of this chapter, and Joy was kind enough to take some time out of her busy schedule to pen a redux. It resolves a lot of the conflicting issues we had before, and keep in mind that there is a method to our madness. Please, review and enjoy!  


* * *

  
I stare at the blinking red light of the camera in front of me, trying to steady my swimming vision for long enough to get the words out. Every single time I've shot up I've gotten it on film. Ever since that very first time nearly six months ago… And I refuse to break that record simply because of withdrawal symptoms. My body can hold out a little longer, I'll just give myself more smack to compensate.   
  
The months have gone by in a blur. I can barely remember anything about this past half year at all. Granted, I've spent most of that time in a drugged haze – and will continue to do so now that Angel is unable to reveal my dirty secret.   
  
The virus is no longer dormant in her body, she was diagnosed as having full blown AIDS about two months ago.   
  
"S-September 8th…" I glance down at my watch that now hangs loosely on my bony wrist, but the numbers are all blurred into one single glow of neon green so I continue without stating the time. "Angel's getting sicker. She hasn't b-been able to tell anyone, and no longer has the strength to so much as get out of bed. I can't afford new needles… All my money goes to heroin now, though that is hardly enough anymore. I've sold everything I possibly can – the microwave that only worked about half of the time, the TV set Collins and I ripped off years ago… But there just isn't anything more I can sell. The only thing left that's worth anything is my camera, and I refuse to part with that. It's m-my only friend. It's pathetic. But it's true. No one has visited here – or even called – in weeks. Maybe months. I have no concept of time anymore, everything has just blurred together, the only thing of importance is making sure I get more heroin. Collins is too busy taking care of Angel, Maureen and Joanne can think of none other but themselves, and Roger… Well, Roger just doesn't care. He's too wrapped up in Mimi – literally – to notice that his so-called 'best friend' is dying just one apartment above him. He's blind to the fact that I now live only for shooting up, and blind to the fact that I am using his needles to do it with. I-"   
  
Suddenly I'm hit with a wave of intense nausea and I let myself drop to the ground where I vomit involuntarily, no longer able to control my withdrawal symptoms. Since there is nothing in my stomach it hurts – a lot. Pure stomach acid forces its way out of my system as I continue to heave, praying to the God I don't fully believe in to let me get past this so that I can shoot up again. When my stomach stops churning and I regain feeling in my leg muscles I shakily return to a standing position.   
  
My clothes are soiled with vomit stains but I don't care. I reach blindly for the needle lying out on the coffee table and barely manage to boil the pallid powder down to a liquid in my trembling hands. But I finally accomplish the task and I inject the now smooth fluid into the syringe, simultaneously slapping my arm for a vein that's not already collapsed.   
  
"H-hit number 390," I breathe out as I plunge the needle tip into my arm.   
  
As the warm heroin courses through my veins, spreading to and relaxing my incredibly tense muscles, I let myself collapse weakly onto the battered sofa and close my eyes for a second, just reveling in the release of my tension and pain.   
  
But as the minutes tick by, the dull ache in my stomach is yet to relent and once again, I find myself kneeling on the floor, scratching the hard wood in pain as my stomach empties itself for the fifth time today.   
  
My God, even with enough heroin in my blood to keep me wasted and happy for a week I still find myself unable to keep down any sort of food or drink, with cold sweat soaking the entire length of my body.   
  
Somewhere underneath all the pain swirling around in my mind I think I hear someone knock at the door…but I'm not sure, it could be the pounding of my head instead.   
  
  
_**Roger: **_  
  
"Mark, let me in!!" I bang on the door once again before sighing heavily and leaning my weight against the decrepit wood marking the entrance of my old apartment.   
  
"Roger…?"   
  
My eyes widen in shock and fear at the sound of my name from behind the door. That's not Mark…it couldn't be Mark. The voice was weak and shaky, and obviously held an enormous amount of pain… I shudder involuntarily when an image of Angel lying sick in her hospital bed flashes through my mind. That's what it sounded like – the voice sounded like Angel on her death bed.  
  
"Mark?" I call out tentatively and tap on the door again. There's no answer this time so I push against the creaking wood frame heavily, straining to get inside to help whatever awaits me on the other side of the door.   
  
Finally the old oak gives way and I push the remaining wood hindering my passage out of the way and step into the loft for the first time in nearly six months.   
  
"Mar-"   
  
My heart catches in my throat when I see my Mark – my best friend – lying on the ground clutching his stomach, covered in his own vomit and sweat, looking half dead and thin as a rail.   
  
"Jesus Christ…" I whisper, struggling to regain control over my temporarily paralyzed body. I finally am able to will my frozen muscles to move again and I rush over to Mark, helping him sit up and wiping his face with the sleeve of my sweatshirt.   
  
Out of the corner of my eye I see Mark quickly tug down the sleeve of his long sleeved shirt, but it barely registers as my spinning mind goes over the number of possibilities as to what could have possibly happened to Mark to make him so sick…but the images aren't pretty.   
  
"What happened?" I ask gently, helping the shivering man off the floor and onto the couch.   
  
My only response is an anguished cry from Mark as he clenches his eyes shut, sweat beading down his already drenched forehead, and curls up into a tight ball, wrapping his bony arms around his even bonier body.   
  
Shit. Shit shit shit. What do I do, what do I do, what do I do??!   
  
Suddenly the blinking red light of the camera catches my eye and I glance up at the old piece of equipment sitting on the tripod, the carefully focused zoom lens getting all of this on film. As I reach over to shut it off I wonder why in the world Mark would want to capture this on tape.   
  
But I don't question it. Mark's always been a little weird about his camera, filming anything and everything he possibly can. So I don't think twice about it as I turn back around to care for my filmmaker. But as I do I notice him discreetly kick something under the couch.   
  
"Mark?" I look at him curiously but all the questions running through my mind quickly fade away when I see Mark's body go limp and then slip down from the couch onto the floor.   
  
Oh shit. Fuck. Oh my God, what do I do? Okay, breathe. First, pick Mark up.   
  
Trying to piece together everything that's happened today, and trying to come up with some logical conclusion as to what happened to Mark while I've been gone, I bend down and pick up his frail, weak body and carry him into his room.   
  
"Mark! Mark, come on, wake up!" I lay Mark's pale, unmoving figure on his bed and shake him for a good minute or so, trying to get him to respond. Finally, after a good five minutes or so, Mark opens his eyelids weakly and stares up at me with dead, emotionless eyes. It's a look that I've grown so familiar with over time. I've seen it in April, her friend Karen, my dealer, Steve, and myself. For a second I don't say anything. Part of my mind is screaming at me, is pointing out the obvious (weak, frail body; withdrawal symptoms; covering scarred arms with long sleeves; the gaze, the dead look in your eyes that only heroin can provide), but another part is screaming even louder to ignore it. It's just the flu, a stomach virus… Mark's not stupid, he knows better than that. Especially after seeing the effects in so many of his friends. I'd be crazy for even considering for a moment that Mark is-   
  
"Roger?"   
  
I cringe at the hoarse whisper and look down at the filmmaker.   
  
"What is it?" I have to fight to keep the tremor out of my voice.   
  
"Can you bring me some water?"   
  
I nod, grateful to distance myself from the shell of my best friend, and walk in a daze into the living room and survey the room, looking for something…anything at all, some sort of clue…   
  
And that's when I notice it. Something underneath the couch catches me eye, making me gasp in shock and horror when I realize what it is. A needle. I pick it up carefully, fingering it delicately, then do a double take when I realize that it is my needle.   
  
I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach as I drop to the couch, lost in my own world of thoughts. What in the world would Mark be doing with a needle? My needle? He would never… No. He wouldn't. That's crazy, I'm not even going to finish my thought.   
  
Mark is, and always will be, the most anti-drug person I've ever known. I've sat through lecture after lecture about the evils of drugs, about how they're killing me, how they're not a solution… I know that there has to be some other reason for him to be hiding my needle under the couch. Another reason as to why he's experiencing symptoms eerily similar to those of withdrawal. Another reason why…   
  
"Roger?"   
  
A soft, female voice calling out my name tears me from my thoughts and I glance up to see Mimi standing in the partially broken down doorway of the loft.   
  
I don't say anything, my mind still racing for a plausible explanation, and I look back and forth from my girlfriend standing just inside the apartment, to the needle I still hold delicately in my hand.   
  
"Rog, what's wrong?" Mimi asks, approaching me from behind and wrapping her lithe arms around my chest.   
As she begins to unlace herself, I'm finally able to take action. I quickly stuff the needle under the sofa cushion, just in time.   
  
Or am I?   
  
Mimi is standing in front of me, a dark eyebrow raised, her painted red lips just slightly ajar. She opens her mouth a few times, as if to say something, but snaps it shut each time. When I offer no explanation, no protests that the needle wasn't mine, she turns away from me and simply says, "I just came to tell you I'm working late tonight," and walks out as if nothing happened.   
  
My mind is spinning, I don't know what to do, which problem to solve first, or even if there is a problem that needs solving in the first place!   
  
"Roger?"   
  
Right. Water.   
  
"Be right there!"   
  
Pocketing the needle, I walk shakily into the kitchen and fill a chipped glass with tap water from the sink. As I retreat back into Mark's room, the voice is still filling my head, repeating the rationalization over and over like a mantra.   
  
_**"It's just the flu. Mark's smarter than you, he wouldn't ruin his life with heroin like you did yours. It's nothing, no need to worry at all. Just the flu…" **_  
  



End file.
